


Dolores, or the Gospel of Termagants

by graiai



Category: Dolores (Notre-Dame des Sept Douleurs) - Algernon Charles Swinburne
Genre: Canon-Typical Romanticization of Death, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Edgeplay, F/F, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Ritual Sex, There's No Incest (Probably) But The Cultists Call Themselves Sisters In That Pseudo-Catholic Way, Unconventional Format, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:21:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24125068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graiai/pseuds/graiai
Summary: II. THE SABBAT-TREGUENDA, OR WITCH MEETING — HOW TO CONSECRATE THE SUPPER.
Relationships: Dolores/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12
Collections: The First Annual Femslash Kink Exchange 2020





	Dolores, or the Gospel of Termagants

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MiriamKenneath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiriamKenneath/gifts).



> The original poem is [here](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45283/dolores-notre-dame-des-sept-douleurs), if you'd like to (re)read it before continuing on.

Of all of the gifts Life has given,  
Decay is the kindest by far;  
For the body’s most beautiful riven,  
And all things at long last become stars.  
５ She fears not the hands which disrobe her,  
Nor the gleaming black-handled athame;  
Knowing goddess shall offer no succor,  
Our Lady of Pain.

Bare but for the jewels on her fingers  
１０ And chains of gold strung ‘round her throat,  
The girl for those hungry eyes shivers,  
For they shine through the haze of the smoke.  
What touches her yet remains human,  
No fangs at her lips do blood draw;  
１５ But truth may turn quick to illusion,  
And nails to claws.

Chill pricks at her breasts ‘til they’re twisted,  
Nipples heated from blood bruising fast;  
She holds herself still, unresistant  
２０ And consent has no need to be asked—  
She’d be wet were she in rigor mortis  
If her goddess had need of her slain,  
But ‘tis not the wont of Dolores,  
Our Lady of Pain.

２５ We priestesses all are defiled,  
And perhaps we had never been pure,  
But erst _we_ were that virginal child  
Thy communion compelled to endure.  
Sacrifice is the highest of honours,  
３０ Our goddess’ droit du seigneur;  
For its agonies only the offer  
Of wine mixed with myrrh.

‘I would have all my faculties present,’  
The little oblation demurs,  
３５ Alighting the altar resplendent,  
Fair as any young maiden interred.  
At her feet she pours out the gold chalice,  
Red wine on white marble, unstained,  
Before giving herself up to Pallas,  
４０ Our Lady of Pain.

She lays herself down on the altar,  
That which breaks girls and makes them again,  
And, though fearful, she never does falter,  
Nor her willing submission doth wane.  
４５ For most it is pleasure they’re longing;  
A precious few peace do prefer.  
Still others discovered their calling  
Through _Venus in Furs_.

The unsteady hitch of her breathing  
５０ Is no timorous nature disclosed,  
But amorous excitement at bleeding  
From the nails which secure her repose.  
She’s dripping at naught but exposure  
And wounds undeserving the name,  
５５ Untouched by and craving her owner,  
Our Lady of Pain.

Steel kisses her sternum, then belly;  
Her thighs are pressed open, laid bare.  
Blade slipping ‘tween cunt lips, held steady,  
６０ No threat but a promise found there.  
But the sacrifice stays undeflowered,  
Shaking thighs not yet painted red,  
‘Worry not,’ says Dolores, ‘you’re ours,  
‘And soon to be bled.’

６５ O dreadful and wondrous mistress!  
O mutable, glorious shrew!  
By thy hand the profane is auspicious.  
Who else could one worship but You?  
Dark-eyed and cream-skinned as a maggot,  
７０ Necrosis and gore thy domain;  
We each and all long for thy Sabbat,  
Our Lady of Pain.

In the pit of her stomach she aches  
To be filled and some monster emerge.  
７５ Dreaming—wishing—that she’ll never wake:  
Let this heart beat a funeral dirge.  
When at last the knife sheathes in her gash,  
She writhes in uncounted hands’ grip,  
And keens for pain worse than the lash  
８０ Of the most brutal whip.

O merciless torments transcendent,  
O agony too sweet to numb!  
She finds in her anguish contentment;  
To iniquity glad to succumb.  
８５ Dolores—she thinks—bends to taste her,  
Tongue slipping inside of her twain,  
For the ritual blade can but stir  
Our Lady of Pain.

Now upon the girl all may descend,  
９０ By our Lady’s rough kiss given leave  
To take us our wine and our bread,  
Sweetest Eucharist sharing our Eve;  
Together intent to discover,  
Such tortures undreamt by de Sade,  
９５ O sisters in vice, thank our Mother,  
Most cruel of the gods!

So take of her mouth, curl her fingers  
To ride them, or frot ‘gainst her thighs,  
Stinging wounds ‘twixt your own which yet linger,  
１００ Unhealed— by Her grace never dry.  
The cunt is that holy stigmata  
Of the maids who follow in Her train,  
Our Matron, our dea non grata:  
Our Lady of Pain.

１０５ To partake of Her gifts, what one’s given,  
One must in the self-same breath deny  
Heaven’s lure, ne’er to be forgiven  
By the three-faced mad God her old crimes.  
So, o sisters, commit brand-new sins,  
１１０ Cruel and cruelest amongst other wrongs!  
Spirit dies, ere anew life begins,  
And to Mother belongs!

O blessèd thy infinite wisdom,  
Thy loves savage, arcane, and perverse!  
１１５ O blessèd the ardor that fills them  
Who in vain take thy name as a curse!  
How fickle in nature the soul is,  
O goddess of infinite names!  
O Pallas Cruenta, Dolores:  
１２０ Our Lady of Pain!

Caught under the thighs of her sister,  
The sacrifice struggles to breathe,  
Barely perceiving the thumbs pressing ‘neath her  
Wine-dark eyes ‘til their prize they’ve prised free.  
１２５ She feels the vitreous wet  
On her cheeks like the stain of her tears,  
‘Oh, hush,’ someone murmurs, ‘don’t fret,  
‘Just give in to fear.’

Dolores is pain beyond measure,  
１３０ Kiss never withstood, but endured  
‘Til no difference can be marked from pleasure,  
‘Til at last all thou art is impure.  
O Dolores, who razes great cities,  
By monstrosities You might be praised;  
１３５ O immaculate goddess and filthy,  
Our Lady of Pain.

In this chamber naught matters but Mother.  
Eyeless and still find thee light  
‘Twixt thy legs, the gleam of Her figure  
１４０ Bright enough to again take thy sight.  
As Her serpentine tongue caresses  
The wound She has made of that cunt,  
What control the oblation possesses  
She loses, abrupt.

１４５ The cry torn from her throat is ecstatic—  
Did not Romans call spent release piss?  
—and her writhing is naught else but bacchic,  
For in agony also is bliss.  
Goddess rises and presses the taste  
１５０ Past her lips, salt-brined, bitter, and maimed.  
O what honour, to be so debased  
By our Lady of Pain!

In abandon, the offering weeps,  
Her own mess a smear ‘cross her face;  
１５５ Down her throat, every vile thing creeps,  
Every fluid and every disgrace.  
‘Accept me,’ her Goddess entreats,  
And sweet Eve has no words on her tongue.  
Those slack lips She takes ‘til replete;  
１６０ And two becomes one.

In that hollowed-out spirit She coils,  
And Eve’s heartbeat once more may begin.  
Newborn gore-strewn and screaming, despoiled—  
Blood, bone, viscera all steeped in sin.  
１６５ With blood-stained teeth we sing Her praises,  
With kiss-worn lips we cry Her names;  
O mother, lover, great Dolores,  
Our Lady of Pain!


End file.
